


The Alcove

by yulon



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, M/M, Two Lonely Dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 03:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12181911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulon/pseuds/yulon
Summary: Sabellian investigates the strange elixirs handed out during the Love is in the Air festival and runs into their effects first hand.[old fic]





	The Alcove

**Author's Note:**

> [an older fic that hasn't been edited since it was posted. :') But enjoy nonetheless................ ]

Sabellian readjusted the graying black hood over his head and squinted at himself critically in the reflection of the small, hand-held mirror he clasped in front of him.

He looked a bit ridiculous, he thought – especially with the cowl, which was not only graying, but threadbare at the ends. It was a ragged old thing, but he supposed that was the point; his usual snake-spauldered outfit would catch too many eyes drifting his way, and he didn’t want that.

The dragon sighed, aggravated at the predicament, but brushed back his black hair from his face as he studied his reflection. The dark cloak over his form was good enough to hide, but he needed to be careful with this bored-induced escapade – and so he’d taken on a secondary illusion over his natural human form, instead appearing as a woman who looked nearly identical to him save for much softer features and lacking facial hair.

No one would question it – but he’d never actually tried the trick before in all of his ten thousand years, having always rolled his eyes when Nefarian had done the same and had boasted his prowess at shifting; Sabellian had simply never risen to the taunt and had stayed in his natural mortal form.

It was, at least, simple enough to shift into this secondary look-a-like – though something about his face reminded of someone he couldn’t quite place. It hardly mattered, though; the illusion was a sound one, and as long as no one recognized him, he would be fine.

Partially satisfied, he slipped the dusty mirror into an inner pocket of his cloak and turned to face the great white stone towers of Stormwind that reared up proudly and thickly in front of him. A regular stream of people, ranging from all of the Alliance’s races, weaved in and out of the Valley of Heroes, and paid him no heed as he joined them – though he hated being so cramped, and tried to stay on the outskirts of the crowd, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the wide variety of smells the mortals possessed. Revolting.

He looked up at the two towers behind the largest statue at the end of the Valley. Large banners of garish pink and red streamed in the gentle wind, and cartoony hearts of the same colors lay draped over the statues along the path.

Sabellian rolled his eyes. Perhaps the decoration was meant to be festive or perhaps endearing – he could never really understand specific mortal customs, sometimes – but he found the ornaments both obnoxious and unsightly.

Though he supposed they matched the holiday – Love is in the Air, he believed. What a long title. He drifted purposefully around the crowd and went through the stone archway that led by an open tunnel into the trade district, the first section of Stormwind -

And by far the busiest. Sabellian frowned and pulled far back away from the new stream of mortals for the second time and looked around. The decorations were more lavish in the blue-thatched district, and remained twirling even on all of the merchant carts that lined the open store doors. It smelled of cooking meat, spices, leather, and dry cloth all in one.

He did not, however, smell anything out of the ordinary. Sabellian frowned to himself and looked around, studying. The mortals had said there had been sort of potion that was spreading throughout the city – willingly – and was making people fall under some sort of charm -… and as any respected alchemist, the dragon wanted to know what the hell it was and why he didn’t know about it first. He had heard of charming elixirs before, but with the way the mortals had talked about to Samia, who had told it to Sabellian, this was something a bit different than what the dragon was accustomed to.

It was somehow seasonal, too, hosted and produced by some goblin company Sabellian hadn’t quite cared enough to get the name off – and the dragon hadn’t wanted to miss the opportunity when he’d found himself near Stormwind to slip in and see just what the stuff was.

So here he found himself on the edge of a crowd, looking around for something he had no idea what looked like save for that it traveled by air and was mixed by goblins.

Sabellian scoffed. Goblins. Out of all the mortals, he liked those the least. Their work was always too shoddy, too cheap, too quick to make a gold coin; there was often no art to their mixes, and the dragon found himself wondering if the goblins were making this charming elixir at all or if the elixir had been boasted as something more worthwhile than it actually was.

That would be just his luck. The dragon shook his head and slipped back into the crowd with a purposed step, crossing his arms over his chests and readjusting his grip, unused to this body even if it was a simple illusion over his normal one.

He turned in the opposite way of the auction house that branched off to the left – and abruptly stopped as he saw a packed booth in the center of the square where a goblin was grumbling to himself and slipping boxes tied with pink ribbon into a burlap sack. The cart was emblazoned with a flag painted with the red words: CROWN CHEMICAL CO. A small icon of a drawn vial filled with light red liquid was squiggled, slightly off-kilter, to the side of the banner.

The dragon stared at the lackluster booth like it had just dug itself out from its own grave, plopped down in front of his feet and had gotten his shoes grimed.

This was what he was wasting his time on?

Sabellian sighed out so low it rumbled as a growl in his chest. The mortals had had to have been exaggerating – as usual.

Nonetheless, he still wanted to see what silly elixir the goblins were pawning off, and so he strode forward, hands still clasped over his chest in a strict cross, and stopped in front of the goblin.

“The vials,” he asked, and almost didn’t recognize his own voice, higher than it usual was but no less decorated with his usual drawl and a tone that implied stupidity on whoever he was talking to, “where are they?”

The goblin looked up with a raised brow and with drooped ears. “What? Oh. The love potions? Took ‘em up to the keep. Got permission from the king to try and sell 'em to the nobles or whatever.”

“I only need one.”

“Well, sorry. They’re all up there.”

Sabellian ground his teeth. “You are telling me you do not have one single potion I can take.”

“Listen, lady, I just told you they’re at the Keep – and anyway, the ones I got here are backstock. Can’t give 'em to ya.” He shrugged and did not look too apologetic. “Rules is rules.”

Sabellian squinted. Something about his look must have scared the goblin, because the booth purveyor turned away abruptly and began to pack up with increased vigor and quickness than he had before.

“Honestly,” the dragon hissed, then turned away from the booth. He looked up as he walked; he could easily make out the white spires, glinting in the high afternoon sun, above the blue roofs of the Trade District. Thankfully the Keep was not on the opposite side of the city; Sabellian wouldn’t have found himself caring so much about a watered down holiday elixir if it had been that far of a walk.

He hated walking. It was much easier to fly, a convenience that he now took for granted as he weaved and shoved through the mortals without any murmurs of 'excuse me’ or 'sorry’ to any of those he accidentally pushed through until he finally got out of the hogged market and out near the open canals.

The Keep was now to his left. The crowd was thinner here, much sparser; he was thankful for it. Huffing, he pulled the hood in place over his face again, made sure it was secure, then made his way to the mighty palace of Stormwind, the towers so high he actually had to arch his neck back to see the top where an Alliance flag flew. Charming.

Four guards, two on each side, were positioned on each side of the archway that led up into the courtyard of the Keep. They didn’t look at him – good. Sabellian rolled his shoulders back and strode through without delay.

The crowd was gone, or at least, most of it. Many of the mortals here looked to be champions of some kind, adorned in lavish uniforms of emblazoned leathers and cloths, shoulder plates of roaring tiger heads or curling spikes, helmets like wolves and helmets like simple hoods, just like Sabellian’s. Stormwind guards with their steel and blue armor were scattered along the stairs that led up to the Keep itself, arching around a very large statue of the King, and atop the highest level seemed to be the nobles, all dressed in their velvet reds and purples and long capes that Sabellian snorted at. They looked like dressed hens, all puffed up like they were.

But where was -? Ah. There they were. The booths, identical to the one Sabellian had seen at the Trade District, were lined on the same upper level the nobles were.

Finally, Sabellian thought. His regret on going on this stupid, senseless trip goaded by his vague curiosity was growing with every step and every moment he stayed here.

He moved passed the mortals lingering near the fountain and noted their glazed looks and ogled eyes and wide smiles; they were drunk, surely. Sabellian huffed and started up the stairs. He’d drank once, and only when Rexxar had insisted that he needed a drink, and after he’d woken up with his head feeling like it was about to split apart he’d yelled at the half-orc his intention never to drink again until the beast-master had only just chuckled at him.

But, no matter. Let the mortals do whatever they wanted as long as it didn’t involve him.

The stairs were quick to go up. Some of the nobles glanced over at him with raised eyebrows, but he ignored them, instead turning to make his way to the nearest booth -

Only for a very strong gust of mist to smack him in the side of his face from his right, coming from another booth.

It smelled of spicy licorice and the musty scent of crushed roses, and, Sabellian noted with growing disgust, a heavier undertone of musk that seemed ill-placed with the lighter smells.

He coughed, brushed his hand over his face and shook out his head. What was that? Had that been what he was looking for – and had someone actually just – sprayed it on him?

“Revolting,” the dragon murmured, coughing a second time as a small itch at the back of his throat grew. He growled and turned to where the mist had come from to see a taller goblin purveyor, who wore a pink mask over his face, look up sharply with the large hoops at his green ears swinging and jangling.

“Hey, lady, this stuff works wonders,” the goblin quipped, his voice loud enough to carry over the crowd as if he was worried others around the booth had heard Sabellian’s comment. “May smell a bit strong, but its the damn best alchemy of the season.”

“Alchemy you just – threw on me without my consent or knowledge,” Sabellian scowled. “And this isn’t isn’t alchemy at all,” Sabellian chided, then cleared his throat as the itch in his throat began to grow, and coughed a third time when that didn’t do the trick. Perhaps it was the scent’s lingering; he realized, now, that the smell was thick up here where the nobles were. Why wasn’t everyone retching and gagging or clutching their heads? “It’s a cheap faire trick.”

The goblin’s ears tilted back. “Jeez, what’s got you all in a twist?” The merchant grumbled. He gestured with a golden gloved hand to the crowd. “You just got a free sample of the stuff, like everyone else here did. You come back and tell me how much of a cheap faire trick it is in a couple minutes, okay?”

Sabellian squinted. The scent was steadily growing overwhelming; he felt like the back of his head was slowly dunking into a warm fuzz, akin to how he’d felt drinking the vile ogre brew Rexxar had given him to try, and his skin was beginning to pop with small goosebumps.

Everyone had gotten a free sample, then? The dragon locked his jaw and turned to look around, running a hand through his hair and consequentially pulling down his hood as if the motion would smooth away the heightening sense of near-drunkenness in his head. It didn’t work.

No – wait. He’d thought the mortals were drinking, but, looking at the nobles and the others below, now, he saw that they held no glasses and that their stances leaned in on one another and many of them twirled their hair and grinned and blushed as the other spoke.

This was the charming elixir – but it had not been what Sabellian was expecting. The goblin at the Trade District had said it was a love potion, and the dragon hadn’t thought twice about it; he’d assumed it’d just been to fit the name of the holiday.

But it seemed the name was literal, and the effects of it seemed to be starting to take hold with how dazed his head was starting to feel and how twitchy his fingers flicked at his sides and his hair as if they had the sudden need to touch.

“Yeah, see? The Crown Chemical Co. ain’t cheap, my friend. Our stuff works.”

Sabellian turned back to the goblin. He dropped his hand from his hair and narrowed his eyes down at the booth runner as the small green mortal stacked up bright pink boxes tied with bows; the cartons smelled like chocolate.

“Is there a reversal?” Sabellian asked. The warm feeling at the back of his head was slowly inching deeper, and he felt the tips of his fingers buzzing.

“Nah. Not really. It wears off after a while.”

“And you are spraying it on people without their consent?”

The goblin must have heard the slight tone of maliciousness in Sabellian’s voice, because he looked up from his chore with a small apologetic grin. “Sorry, lady. I mean, it’s kinda’ hard to get the product out otherwise, you know what I’m sayin’? And plus, a little flirting never really hurt nobody. It’s harmless.”

“I am not about to look like some sort of stupidly-grinning fool,” the dragon growled. So much for a charming elixir, he thought bitterly. He had no use for some sort of stupid, lovey-dovey, lustful one, and even less use of being effected by it.

The goblin shrugged. “Like I said, it wears off fast.”

The haze in his head was thick, now. Sabellian scrunched his eyes closed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The tingle that had been in his fingertips was steadily creeping up his arms and settling into the pit of his stomach, and he shifted once, uncomfortably. He needed to get away from here.

“Anyway, that was the free sample. Sorry you’re being a grump about it, but hey, you look like you can afford to smile more -”

“Stop speaking,” Sabellian interrupted with a snap, dropping his hand from his face and opening one eye to glare down at the goblin, who was no longer smiling. “I would consider yourself very lucky that you are protected by the walls of this city; you should not have sprayed that disgusting muck on me.”

Mortals, he thought, growling, as he turned on his heel and strode away without waiting for the goblin to give another one of his less-than-charming replies.

He needed to get away from the smell of the potion; all it was doing was to make him even dizzier and the tingling in his arms and in his chest and in his stomach intensify with each breath he took. Sabellian stopped and looked out at the stairs.

One of the mortals with the glazed look of the brew – not one of the nobles – whistled at him. Sabellian scoffed, and, unsatisfied with his choices of escape, promptly turned back the way he’d come and, without looking away, the dragon struck out his heel and smashed it into the human’s foot so hard the whistle became a pained yelp.

Sabellian continued on, continuing passed the booths, all while noting the the goblin he’d spoken to beginning to crouch behind his counter, as if thinking Sabellian was coming at him.

But the dragon ignored the merchant, went passed him, and was glad to note, at least, that the sweet-musky smell of the love potion in the air started to lessen as he made his way farther out to the outskirts of the higher level of the Keep.

Sabellian mulled to himself as best as he could with the encroaching mist in his head; he was a renowned alchemist, and he knew he was good at what he did. This 'love potion’ was, indeed, no faire trick at all, judging by the warping in his head that thrummed with every step he took. It was very, very powerful, and Sabellian scowled and swept a hand over his face as he slowly realized that all of the colors – the white of the stone, the blue of the sky, the gold of the Alliance flag – were unnaturally vibrant; the damned elixir was even altering his own eyesight.

The goblin had said it would wear off. Fine. But Sabellian didn’t trust himself to go back into the throng with the mortals while under the effects of this humiliating mess; it was best to stay close and wait this out, and somewhere, he thought, where he could just be alone and try to focus on his sanity and not on whatever this idiocy tried to induce him in. The stuff was powerful, certainly, but he didn’t know the extent of what it could do to him.

A chance of some silence presented himself when he turned, intending to try to perhaps slip into the Keep itself, and saw that the edge of the large building created a small alcove that slipped back into somewhere unseen, halfway hidden from another small, decorative tower to the left.

Perfect. Sabellian slipped through the hidden pathway.

It was almost like another hidden level of the Keep altogether. The grey-white stone of the floor reached out over a small man-made lake that seemed to be flowing in through a grid that was built underneath the Keep, and the towers of the palace shadowed over the place; it was darker here, and much quieter, much to Sabellian’s relief.

The ground swayed. He lurched forward and caught his balance on the side of the Keep, leaning hard. He scrunched his eyes closed. It was so bright. Slowly, he raised a hand and kept it on the other side of his head. The drunken fuzz in his head was solidifying, strengthening, even if he had gotten away from the booths.

Had he really inhaled that much? Sabellian squinted his eyes open again, warily, nervous that if he did everything might be in garish pink and red like the decorations – but they weren’t, save for the more vibrant colors.

The dragon kept leaning on the side of the wall, with his one hand extended, his other entwined in his hair. He scrunched his eyebrows and swayed once. He felt awful. How had everyone been smiling?

Perhaps it was adjusting to his system. Sabellian growled and shifted his feet once, then lowered his hand from his head. Some potions affected individuals differently; maybe this was one of them.

Sabellian shook his head and took a deep breath. Well, at the very least, he just felt drunk and not like he had the sudden need to profess some false love to random passerby’s or grin or smile, save for the twitching in his fingers.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood against the wall, thinking that the worst was over, when until his thoughts felt like they were beginning to twist apart and drift away like leaves upon a lake, all in different directions.

“Stop,” he complained, half-groaning, half-growling. Had he really inhaled that much? Had -… the thought trailed off as the fuzz, the drug, enveloped the rest of his head, and then the drunken, off-kilter feeling of his body, the strong feeling of drunkenness, reverted into a pleased tingling that did not seem too terrible to him anymore - his chest felt lighter, his vision sharpened, and his stomach like syrup.

Sabellian rubbed at his eyes. Something in the back of his head was telling him to stop giving in so easily, but he did, anyway, unable to really think through the sudden amplified haze – especially when drugged memories began to crop up in his mind’s eye, distracting him, drifting and pulling apart again, with flashes and images – most of them were Kesia, both in her human form and in her dragon form, her lips pressing against his, her hands entwining in his hair - but every time he tried to focus in on one, they disappeared, teasing.

Sabellian ground his teeth, frustrated. It was the loss of control of the memories that began to make him snap from the sudden, drug-induced stupor, and he shook his head, hard, so hard his ears rang, and huffed once, twice, shaking the thoughts away. Kesia was dead, he reminded himself while he muscled through the pleasing haze, though every inch of his body was trying to lure him back to those flashes, those images, those feelings. This was the chemical reaction at work, twisting and firing the neurons in his brain.

Thinking about it scientifically, logically, was working; the memories slogged away. The dragon scoffed.

The tingling in his body, however, stubbornly remained - and felt even more wanting, even more reaching, and the sudden need was so uncomfortable and almost alien to him that it made him swallow hard and grit his teeth and shift his feet, but no amount of movement was shaking away the throb in his lower stomach.

He had fought off the Old Gods so far, and he was not about to give into some stupid love potion instead. The mere thought was so ridiculous he almost rolled his eyes at himself.

Turning, Sabellian looked down at the water. The lake was, surprisingly, clearer than the water in the canals; he noted a forgotten wooden bucket laying near the edge of the makeshift pier to the left, as if someone had actually been trying to fish out of the lake. The dragon shook his head. How could someone fish from that hole?

A sudden clanking of metal caught his attention. He looked over, squinting, annoyed at having been found in his hiding spot.

A tall human, clad in very elaborate blue-steel armor, walked slowly into the alcove, clutching his head with one hand, turned, then leaned back hard on the wall, as Sabellian had just done, with a low groan of pain. He bent his head down nearly to his chest, the end of his long, wild ponytail caught between his back and the wall, and groaned again.

Sabellian stared.

First, he stared at the armor. Ugh. It looked heavy. He never understood plate armor – but then again, he never saw the need for it, being a dragon the size of an inn. Squinting, Sabellian looked at the shoulder-plates – one an eagle, the other, a lion – and then up and down the rest of the mortal’s laborious ensemble, all thick steel in blue and gold and red. A blood-colored cloak, fringed with white, hung from his back. Sabellian couldn’t see the man’s face, as the warrior, or whatever he was, was holding it in his hand, though the dragon noted the end of a vicious scar running along the warrior’s nose.

Well, he certainly was a strong-looking fellow, Sabellian could give him that. His fingers curled and uncurled.

Wait. The dragon pulled back. He blinked hard. Through his daze, something alarming was ringing in the back of his head; he knew who the other person was. It was so familiar. He couldn’t place it. Sabellian growled and tried to brush away the fuzz -

Oh.

This was the King of Stormwind.

The answer came so plain to him the dragon frowned and crossed his arms. Varian Wrynn.

How unnerving.

Usually, he would have tried to sweep around the mortal and get very far away, but his feet felt rooted to the spot, and he couldn’t stop staring.

Sabellian ground his teeth. This potion wasn’t some sort of – some sort of imprinting one, was it?

He tried to look away, tried to truly, really, tear his eyes off the king, who hadn’t looked up from his hands, but he honestly could not, as if ropes were tying his neck and head in place.

The dragon blinked once. It should have bothered him more than it was. But the longer he stared, the less he found himself caring about moving. He opened his mouth and, unthinking, spoke. “Having trouble?” Sabellian asked, and Varian looked up from his hand and over at him – and then squinted, a slight flicker of surprise widening at the corners of his light brown eyes before it disappeared as quickly as it had come. The dragon quirked a brow.

For a moment, the human said nothing, only continued to stare at him.

Sabellian was about to ask if he’d been drinking, he had such a dazed look to him, before Varian dropped his hand from his face and slowly stood upright with a vaguely confused look.

“I’m fine,” Varian murmured. He had a gravelly, strong voice, but a more casual one than Sabellian had been expecting. He looked Sabellian up and down, then frowned. “I’m sorry. You look,” his frowned deepened, “very familiar.”

“Oh?” Sabellian didn’t like that. He mentally checked that he was still in his secondary illusion, and, noting he was, frowned to himself.

Varian shrugged. He shifted once, metal clanking; he looked uncomfortable, almost as uncomfortable as Sabellian felt. The mist in his head was trying to goad him to move forward, to get closer -

He couldn’t stop himself. Almost like he was watching from the pier below, he saw himself take a couple of steps forward into the alcove, and he did nothing to try to rein in the instinct.

Why was this  _happening?_  This was  _humiliating_. He would have rather drank poison than be subject to the loss of control of his own body in this very embarrassing way.

“I’m sorry, but what  _is_  your name? This is bothering me,” Varian asked. He’d dropped his hands to his sides.

“Sablemane,” Sabellian said, unthinking, then almost winced as the words left his mouth. What was he thinking? He’d taken the female illusion for a reason; giving away his mortal name out so easily was just asking for trouble -… but another part of his mind, the very drugged part, wanted the warrior to know his name, for whatever silly reason.

The man frowned at him again, thoughtfully, and, much to Sabellian’s relief, no hostility; he hadn’t recognized the name. “I see,” was all the other muttered before crossing his arms and tilting his head at Sabellian. “What are you doing in here?”

“What are  _you_  doing in here, rather? You’re the King. I believe hiding away is a bit boyish.”

Varian raised a brow. He smiled, clearly amused and not, in fact, insulted, before answering. “I needed a breather,” he answered. He nodded over to the small opening that led back out to the open level of the Keep. “The nobles are…” Pausing, the king looked at him. “I’m guessing you’re not a noble?”

“No. Did my rag of a cloak give it away?”

Varian huffed, but it was more of a reined-in laugh than anything of ill-intent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Oh, how charming, Sabellian thought with wild sarcasm, raising a brow at the king. “The nobles are… tiresome.”

“Mm.” Sabellian glanced behind the king. From his stance, he could see no one near the entrance to the alcove. “I’m sure they are squawking even louder from that vile mixture.”

Varian blinked, confused, before his eyes finally lit with understanding. “The goblins’?” When he saw Sabellian nod, the king exhaled hard. “I agree. It’s terrible. My head feels like it’s spinning.”

Oh - Varian had gotten it on him, too. No wonder he looked so dazed.

Though, thinking about it, Sabellian didn’t feel the daze anymore. His head felt sharp - perhaps too sharp - and especially when he kept it on Varian, which was something he didn’t really want to think about why.

Probably because he already had an idea about  _why_.

“The civilians seem to… enjoy it, though. I can’t do much about it.” The king rubbed at his eyes. “One of the worse things about this damn holiday.”

“I suppose the charming decorations are the other 'worse’ thing.”

“What? Oh. No. They’re fine. Not… my taste, but fine.” The king swept his hand away from his face and crossed his arms over his chest, metal quietly scraping against metal. Sabellian twitched at the sound. “It’s complicated to celebrate a holiday that’s supposed to be shared.”

Sabellian squinted. He didn’t understand, at first, until he thought about it - and realized that it was a holiday surrounding  _love_ , which was supposed to be something mutual.

He recalled there was no Queen of Stormwind. The dragon nodded once, slowly.

“Understandable,” Sabellian drawled. A small breeze whistled against the entrance to the alcove; he wrinkled his nose as a sudden waft of the licorice and roses slipped through the turn. Oh, please, not  _more_. Quickly, Sabellian turned his head away, trying not to inhale any more than he already had.

Varian coughed.

The twisting, syrupy feeling in his stomach and legs heightened - uncomfortably so. Sabellian growled and ran a hand over his face. He needed a distraction.

Talk. Talking could work. He looked back at Varian quickly and found himself simply staring at the king for a solid ten seconds before he managed to open his mouth. “I’m afraid we share the same predicament,” he said.

Varian looked at him a bit more sharply, and, Sabellian was glad to note, no pity. The king nodded, then leaned up from the wall and turned to get a bit closer to the dragon.

Sabellian grit his teeth; up close, Varian smelled like steel and earth and something vaguely musty but pleasing in quality that Sabellian couldn’t quite place – perhaps some sort of leather?

He swallowed and clenched his hands behind his back in two clasped fists as the sudden urge to reach out and touch him swept hot, dizzying, up his temple.

Yes. He would have rather drank the poison than this.

“I’m sorry,” Varian said. Sabellian squinted at him, his jaw locking as the urge kept pulling at his hands. “Are you here alone?”

“Obviously.”

Varian raised a brow, but did not comment for a moment. He looked down at the lake, hummed to himself, then paused. “I can guess you hate the holiday as much as I do.” He sounded as if he was trying to be upbeat about it, but he just came off as sounding more miserable than he had probably intended.

“I don’t celebrate it,” Sabellian responded. “But I can assure you I would no doubt 'hate it was much as you do.'”

Varian only nodded in reply. He looked back at Sabellian and his eyes lingered noticeably; the glaze, the drunkenness, in them shifted. “Right,” the king murmured as if from far away. “I’ll probably be staying here until most of the nobles leave – and this damn headache goes away. Do you mind if we distract one another – talking,” he added hurriedly with a slightly confused look like he wasn’t sure what he’d just said.

What an interesting way to put it. Sabellian lifted a brow, but nodded a heartbeat later all the same. Varian looked a bit more comfortable at that.

Varian moved the smallest bit closer. Sabellian locked his jaw. The haze was thick, hot, and all his limbs tingled at their edges. Maybe he should have said no, but he had a feeling that his mouth wouldn’t have allowed the word to escape.

Varian leaned next to to him, and they started to talk.

—

It was some time before Sabellian realized they had been speaking to one another for quite some time – about different things, namely their significant others and their children, something both related strongly to – and the realization of just how long they’d been speaking came quickly as he looked over at the king to respond to some comment he’d hardly heard, too drugged, perhaps, by Varian’s voice to think coherently and saw Varian was looking at him with the same glazed look Sabellian himself no doubt had on his own face.

The effects of the potion had taken a deep root and Sabellian did not care anymore.

The conversation had somewhat drifted off as they had spoken. Their words had grown a bit quieter, hoarser. Most of the latter half was composed of long pauses that only made the throb in Sabellian’s body  _worse -_

All he wanted to do was just  _touch_  the king. He blinked hard. Touch and  _bite_ -

“You’re wearing a disguise,” Varian said, his own voice slow, slogged, drugged, and Sabellian stared at him.

“Hardly.”

“Your face just flickered. I think I know magic when I see it.”

Before Sabellian could answer, Varian grabbed the dragon’s chin and forced his eyes level. The steel of the king’s blue gauntlets was cold. The dragon started to lean into the touch but caught himself, some remaining sliver of rational desperately holding him back.

When his disguise flickered again, Sabellian felt it. Varian raised a brow, but kept his hand on his face.

With a loud, aggravated sigh, Sabellian let go of the disguise, smoke curling down from the top of his head and traveling down passed his chest, his legs, then to his ankles, until he was in his natural human form, though he still wore the ragged cloak over his usual red one underneath.

Varian hardly looked surprised; maybe it was because of his stupor, Sabellian managed to think through his own, as the king tilted the dragon’s head to the left then to the right like he was inspecting him, and Sabellian didn’t really think enough to stop Varian from doing something he would have easily broken the king’s arm for.

“Good,” Varian said, and Sabellian was about to comment on the vague compliment before the king snatched onto the front of his cloak with his other hand, dropped his fingers from Sabellian’s face and curled them tight against the back of his neck, and shoved him into the wall, the metal of his gauntlet clanging, the stone warm and hard against Sabellian’s back.

With force, Varian pressed his lips against the dragon’s with something near to desperation, and that alone made the spike in the dragon’s stomach shoot up into his chest - he returned it willingly  _(finally,_ the drugged ,enchanted part of him complained) and _,_  though annoyed that  _he_  was the one being smashed up against the wall, slipped a hand around to pull down at Varian’s ponytail with a harsh yank that tore a small, pained rumble from the king.

Sabellian, smirking slightly at the noise, slid his other hand around to find purchase around Varian’s chest, or at his side - though it was hard to with all of the bulky armor; the need to  _feel_  and  _touch_  was so overwhelming Sabellian’s hold head was ringing with it, and the lack of skin and heat was starting to frustrate him.   
He bit, with a growl, Varian’s bottom lip; the iron taste of blood, vague, bloomed against his tongue. It made up for his earlier aggravation. He went to deepen the kiss, to taste more of both Varian and his blood when the king pulled away abruptly with an amused huff, his eyes a bit more wild than they were glazed over.

Sabellian glared. Why was he pulling away? He tried to lurch forward but Varian held him in place by the back of his neck, and, glancing down, the king took his other hand from the front of Sabellian’s ragged cloak and brushed it across where the dragon had bitten him.

“That’s a bit violent,” the king said - but all the same he grinned slowly, and the dragon deepened his glare as his impatience started to flare in his chest.

He was about to try to twist out of the king’s grip when Varian moved forward with another kiss with more vigor, and his hand went not to grab onto the front of Sabellian’s cloak again, but instead where it clasped at the front; with deft fingers, surprising with the heavy, clunky gauntlets Varian wore, the king undid the small leather loop and slid his hand to grope the dragon’s side. Sabellian groaned so low it rumbled off as a growl.

The dragon let Varian touch. He wanted the king to. He very much  _needed_  the king to, the fog in his head goaded. Varian moved his hand, squeezing, Sabellian’s side, his chest, his back, feeling, touching, and Sabellian was too dazed to even continue kissing; he pulled away with Varian’s blood on his lips and scrunched his eyes closed; he bared his lips back in a silent growl before a literal one rumbled again from his throat as Varian pushed up against him, closer.

“That armor is too cold,” Sabellian complained with annoyance, opening his eyes again and leaning his head down to bite at Varian’s neck before the king could jerk back. He felt Varian wince underneath his mouth; the king’s fingers dug deeper into Sabellian’s back.

Pleased with the reaction, Sabellian only bit deeper, then pulled his teeth away and sucked where he’d bitten. Varian was forcing off the black cloak; Sabellian didn’t care.

“Interesting cloak,” Varian commented, now that Sabellian’s usual red and orange outfit was revealed. The dragon only scoffed and passed on a response, opting instead to pull away from the bite mark and link his fingers into an open notch against the side of Varian’s chestplate near his arm.

Varian took the moment to push the dragon deeper against the wall; Sabellian swallowed another rumble and resisted the simple urge to push up against him, instead moving his lips against Varian’s again. His free hand went back to Varian’s hair and curled there against his scalp, and he pulled - not enough to harm, this time. The pleased grumble that went into Sabellian’s mouth from Varian was a good enough indication the king enjoyed it.

Sabellian felt a pressure at one of his legs and glanced down while they kissed, Varian’s own fingers in Sabellian’s long hair; Varian was trying to position one of his legs around his own to keep him in place.

Sabellian glared. He pulled down on Varian’s hair so hard that it jerked the king’s face up, breaking them away from one another - and then, tapping just slightly into the unseen force of his dragon form, focused the strength into his arms and forced Varian into a turn, switching places.

He smashed the king up against the wall with a metallic clang and placed his claws against Varian’s neck, and, with a satisfied look, tilted the king’s head up to bare Varian’s throat to him. Varian scoffed loudly and tried to twist away from the grip, but Sabellian held him in place without so much as a shake in his arms. Smoke curled lazily from one corner of his mouth.

“Do not lock me in place,” Sabellian chided, then nudged the end of his foot against Varian’s shin to illustrate.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Varian retorted a bit too snappily for Sabellian’s liking. The dragon huffed but pushed in for the continuation of their kiss; he pressed himself against Varian again while one of his hands drifted down to the king’s lion-headed belt.

“I doubt there’s much we can do,” Sabellian started to say until Varian squeezed the back of one of his thighs and his own somewhat startled groan interrupted what he was going to comment on. Varian gave him a snide smile and Sabellian growled. Varian’s grip did not loosen.

“You were saying?”

“I was  _saying_  that there is not much we can  _do_  because of your loathsome outfit,” Sabellian snapped, and flicked one of his claws against Varian’s metal chest-plate with a quiet  _ding_. All he _wanted_ to do was take his claws and simply shear the stuff away, for still his fingers tingled, his stomach, his chest, even his temple, felt hot and the urge kept pressing him on – even with Varian’s blood and taste against his mouth and the smell of him thick against his own body.

Varian looked at him. His eyes remained glazed, faraway, and he made a thoughtful humming noise in the back of his throat as his hand loosened from Sabellian and slid his fingers, touching, around the dragon’s hip. Sabellian withheld a low snarl as the king purposefully placed his hand against the dragon’s crotch and pushed forward just enough for Sabellian to bare his teeth back at the feeling, and, on instinct, push back into Varian’s hand.

“Mhm,” was all Varian said before he withdrew his hand, and Sabellian only lurched forward, momentarily stunned at the loss of feeling, all until his usual anger resurfaced through the fuzz in his head and he glared at Varian again for the tease.

“Must you?” Sabellian scoffed, annoyed, now, and Varian actually  _chuckled_ , and the dragon ground his teeth and forced the king’s laugh to a stop as he cracked their lips together again, and again, until every moment of their lips was senseless and unyielding -

Varian pushed back at him. Sabellian was confused at what was going on until one of the king’s hands latched onto his shoulder and tore him around, and with an  _oomph_  Sabellian was pushed up against the wall for the second time – this time with his chest against the stone.

“You’re a dragon, aren’t you?” Varian said; it was not a question, but his graveled voice was right next to Sabellian’s ear, and, frustrated at having switched places again, Sabellian tried to push back, but Varian was strong and kept him in place. “I saw the smoke. I know why you look so familiar.”

“Yes. How  _smart_ you are,” Sabellian grumbled, and tried to push back for the second time, though it worked little. Varian twisted one of his legs in front of Sabellian’s to keep the dragon where he was standing; Sabellian glared at the wall.

Varian pulled back at the dragon’s hair; Sabellian hissed, but stopped when Varian pressed up against his back and pushed him more against the wall, and, slowly, languished, the hiss lowered into a groan as the king trailed his free hand up Sabellian’s side.

“I’ve bedded black dragons before,” Varian continued, his fingers lilting slowly up Sabellian’s side, then his chest, then up to his neck, where they tugged down at the white turtleneck wrapped there. “One.”

Sabellian squinted at the wall, a bit confused -

Oh. Now he knew who he had looked like.

“I’m sure my sister enjoyed enchanting you,” Sabellian said, rolling his eyes. “The question, however, is if a black dragon has ever bedded  _you_.”

Varian huffed and took his hand from the dragon’s throat to snatch onto Sabellian’s left wrist, and then his right, quick even for his bulky armor, and pinned them back behind the dragon’s back tightly.

Sabellian growled. He tried to pull away from the grip, even tapping into his draconic strength again, but found he couldn’t push away. The king was very strong – he must have been to carry that outfit around at all times.

“I don’t think that option’s going to happen,” Varian said with a slightly amused tone that made Sabellian grit his teeth and push arch his back into the king’s chest on impulse as the king’s hand dropped from pinning Sabellian to the wall went in-between the dragon’s thighs again – and even if it was just through the cloth, the heightened senses from the potion must have been at work, for every slip of Varian’s hands against him made Sabellian bite his inner cheek so hard he actually tasted his own blood. He pushed up against the king’s palm with a rumbling moan and Varian breathed out hard against his neck -

A muffled shuffling of metal interrupted the fog, just enough for Sabellian to shift his focus from Varian to the entrance of the alcove. Long shadows trailed up near the sunny entrance.

Varian must have noticed them too, for he pulled back from Sabellian, both his hands dropping; most of Sabellian’s drugged head whined with displeasure, but he straightened himself up anyway, glaring and snatching his tattered cloak from the ground to bunch it from his crossed arms in front of him.

A trio of Stormwind guards peeked into the alcove; their backs went rigid and straight as they saw the king. They ignored Sabellian.

“King Varian,” one of them, a woman said, while nodding apologetically; her metal helmet bounced with the movement. “Your son was worried about you; you’ve been gone for quite some time.”

Varian sighed. He nodded. “Alright. I’ll be right there,” he said, and the guards saluted before turning away and disappearing again. The king swept a hand over his face and exhaled hard. Sabellian blinked at him stupidly. It felt like the fog was thinning now that the king was a couple of feet away from him.

Slowly, the dragon narrowed his eyes. The rational part of him was waking up.

Varian turned to him. He must have been feeling the same thing, for the glaze was mostly gone from his face and he looked at Sabellian curiously and with confusion as one might look at someone who had just attempted to speak in a foreign, unknown language.

“I’ll – be at the Keep,” Varian started, his voice hesitant.

Sabellian stared at him with his brows bunched together and a vague, confused, and somewhat frustrated frown.

The dragon nodded once.

“You’ll be allowed in if you’d like to follow,” Varian continued. He looked unsure of what else to do or say and the effect was so comical that Sabellian almost found himself smirking at him, even through his own confusion.

“Go tend to your son, King Varian,” Sabellian said. It was the only thing that came to mind.

Varian and Sabellian stared at each other for another moment before the king nodded briskly and left the alcove, his boots tromping.

“Is there blood on your face, sir?” Sabellian heard one of the guards ask.

And, despite his sudden humiliation at having realized he’d allowed the potion to get to him, Sabellian chuckled to himself.


End file.
